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“Harrowhark, what did you come here for?”
A hand was laid on Harrow's left shoulder, and Harrow stilled. Next thing she knew a ghost of a kiss followed the hand, planted a little down the line of her shoulder blade — a meaty sound as her guts came apart was just an afterthought. Her back felt the hilt, and the strength fled her at once. Her knees buckled, and she fell forward, wordlessly, bloodied metal flashing her sight. First, she landed on her knees. Then she propped on one hand, as the other went to stop the blood seeping through where the blade left off. The same hand from before gently shoved her, and Harrowhark fell to the side, laid like a dead crow against dark tiles. In her line of sight she could hardly make out more than anyone's legs.
Gideon stepped past her. Her sword dripped.
“Child, you didn't have to,” said God the Emperor pityingly.
“You could still help her,” she challenged coolly.
A considering pause.
The Emperor stepped closer. Harrow couldn't see much, but his boots she could study with ease, when her vision didn't swim. He crouched next to her and put her on her back.
Her blood quickly formed a dark pool, darker and bigger than any she found herself in before. Dark swirled around God's feet.
“Harrowhark—”
Harrow turned her head to him, and then past, and then—
“Gideon,” she commanded, breathless, catching the golden gaze for one precious moment. Gideon didn't need to be told anything else.
She ducked the Emperor into the blood pool headfirst, and they all went under. Dark water bubbled with shocked breaths none of them really needed, and then at the point before them darkness went pitch black and opened. It was a mouth. It answered to the call.
John Gaius didn't look scared or troubled and was steadily moving in the direction of bored as he turned and Harrow could see more of his face. That's when the first harpoon hit his body. His mouth twitched, but the shape of sound was lost to the water.
Another harpoon came fast and was accompanied by long skeleton arms, except that these arms weren't as enormous in size as the mouth's teeth but had a previously unseen amount of bones joined to form an arm. As one of the hands caught Gaius, from its arm's joints sprang out more hands, like a stereotype of what the Ninth House would consider a nice bouquet, and they got him too, dragging him into the opening.
There wasn't a chance of struggle. John Gaius, God and Emperor of what was known as the Nine Houses, slipped away into Hell, hardly visible under all the death mass covering him.
Harrow felt very tired. The gravitational pull was still strong. Someone — Gideon — tugged on her sleeve urgently, and suddenly she found herself floating up, not down, and the mouth under them closed, satisfied. The water flashed golden in an assault to her senses, which didn't mind an excuse to shut down. She fell and fell and fell, and ghostly little hands reached for her again.
“Stitch it. Harrow, damn it, you won't die now. Is it even over yet?”
Harrow could feel again, arms around her, a bigger hand than her own pressing on her wound. Slowly, she obeyed. It was hard, harder than ever before, like walking to the shore after spending hours, weightless, in the water and finding your weight back on and finding it unbearable, as if her very flesh fought back to stay open.
“Good, blood, replenish blood,” she was urgently hurried, and the voice sounded somewhat muted and shaky and readying for a slip away.
Suddenly Harrow knew that she was wet through and through and that she had things to owe even after the end of the world. The owing has never really gone away — she just wasn't used to being back all the way with something to do about it. Distant shame warmed her insides. Harrow peeled her eyes open, and, before her, Gideon wasn't faring any better. Her once white attire was red with Harrow, and her hair was red, as always, and under it she was ashen. But her eyes... Her eyes were clear, startling yellow, liquid old sun of the First from borrowed ancient dreams. Harrow's breath caught in her throat.
“You're beautiful,” Harrow breathed out and smiled faintly.
“No, Harrow..." panic broke Gideon's voice. “No! Focus!”
Harrow chuckled lightly and slid the closest to the other's body hand around Gideon's back, as her other hand reached for the shoulders, all leaving more bloody prints. From up there she could see curved eyelashes trembling.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
Her hand went for the nape of Gideon's neck, pulling her in, panicked and lost for words, yellow eyes wide with surprise and something else not entirely decipherable, and Harrow's lips were blood on that cool hard skin. Something small and warm dropped on her own feverish being, and again, and again. She found Gideon was crying.
She found tear stains — real, they were there, streaming from the overflown sea of gold — and kissed them like a blessing. Warm breath caressed her skin, and Gideon kissed just the very corner of Harrow's mouth. It was an answer, and it was a cue for her own — real, clean, not bloody — tears to run.
Gideon's lips were soft, with all the tenderness of someone who couldn't wait to stop tearing each other apart. And tearing each other apart, like they did, involved knowing. She didn't shy away from blood on the other's lips, and Harrow didn't feel eaten — she gave and she only grew stronger for it as new blood sang through her veins, as the body under and above hers grew steadier, warmer, softer. Gideon gave her best smile and tried to wipe Harrow's face.
“Not dying over here, are you?”
Harrow tensed: “And you?”
At that, Gideon took her in and grinned.
“Not yet, sugar lips.”